Memory
by Zighana
Summary: "Every time you get in that wheelchair, I want you to think of me. Smiling." He remembers those words every time he wakes up. Dane/Bradley, non-con, 2-part series. You have been warned.


**Memory**

It's been 6 months since that night. 6 months since that life-changing injury cost Bradley not only his ability to play football, but his ability to walk again. The doctors, bless their souls, tell him there's a slim chance he'll walk again, but not as good. It is a lengthy, pricey, and difficult process, but it can be done. Even though he's satisfied he defied Dane's hopes of ruining his life, Dane still haunted Bradley.

Every night, like the boogeyman, he'll come and haunt his nightmares. There would be nights it had gotten so bad Bradley woke up screaming in cold sweat and piss, and eventually he'd cry himself back to sleep.

Some nights, Bradley could even feel Dane's ice cold fingers gliding over his flesh, breath hot and humid in his ear, voice laced with mocking words.

"You know why I bully and hurt you?" Dane would ask, before pressing his lips to the blonde's jugular.

"Why?" Bradley replies. He would turn his head to a face full of curls, of soft but violent lips, of hate-filled eyes and a stench of death and decay.

"Because you can't stop me," Those lips would grin, laugh, and make Bradley sick. The hands would continue their journey, mapping out his body gone to waste because of him.

"This is your fault, Bradley," Dane would begin, shaking his head.

"If you had _stopped_," when his voice cracked, Bradley knows there's some humanity within him. But Dane collects himself and begins his touch.

"If you had stopped bullying me and my friends, you would be playing football, going to a college, meeting some vapid blonde and producing more idiots like you."

"I'm sorry. How many times do I need to say it? I'm in a wheelchair, and I might stay in a wheelchair until I'm dead. My dreams are ruined, my friends abandoned me, and now everybody I know looks at me with pity. Haven't I learned my lesson enough?" he begs ghost Dane for an inch of mercy and please, for one night, leave him to a sleep-filled dream, of restful mornings and painless reminders of what used to be.

Dane doesn't know mercy.

"Do you remember when I made you a paraplegic?" Dane begins, lips pressed to his cheek.

"I told you that every day, when you get into that wheelchair, I want you to think of me. Smiling."

Bradley nods his head.

"I've already fulfilled my wish." Dane grins, before laughing in his face. When he vanishes into a wisp of smoke, Bradley collapses from exertion.

Weeks would pass and the same dream would occur, only slight variations: Dane would get bolder, more aggressive. Sometimes Dane would punch him in his face, spit on his cheek, bite his jaw until skin broke. He would call Bradley every vile name in the book and give him detailed fantasies of what he'd like to do with him. Sometimes, and those times were more disturbing, where Dane would be gentle. He would touch Bradley softly, peppering his injuries with kisses and soft nips. He would bury his face into Bradley's neck, murmuring apologies and empty promises. During those times Bradley would be so tired and drained he'd believe Dane, and would accept those apologies with the nod of his head. Those conflicting sides of Dane makes Bradley wonder. Are these the true sides of Dane or are they the sides Bradley wants from him?

Before that Halloween party, Bradley always wanted to torment Dane. He doesn't know why, but it's a rush to feel his fist collide with his flesh, to grab those chocolate curls and slam his skull against the wall. He took his beatings with a scowl on his face and sometimes would try to fight back. Dane was a rare breed; he actually had balls. Part of Bradley needed a victim to challenge him, to actually hit him back.

A glutton for punishment he is.

Deep in his sick passions, Bradley wanted Dane to hit him. He wanted his rage, his fists, those tiny hands to leave bruises. In his warped philosophy, he wants Dane to toughen up, understand that the only way to survive is to either shape up or ship out. Dane is the little shrimp that the world will swallow whole and spit out, like it did Bradley's father. When Dane fights back, it gives Bradley a high he can't describe. He wanted to push him down to see Dane crawl from it, and fight back even harder. He wanted Dane to be stronger.

_"The strangest thing about this is," his lips pressed against his ear, his meek voice sending shivers down Bradley's spine, "you empowered me."_

Hard to imagine a weakling who's at the bottom of the food chain as _empowered_. But seeing his victim turn the tables on him, knife pressed to his cheek as he begs for mercy...

Dane truly _was_ empowered.

And it turned Bradley on.

* * *

It has been exactly a year since that Halloween night. And it has been exactly two months since his surgery. He can finally get feeling in his legs; the overwhelming sensations makes him cry with happiness. His physical therapy is going to take some time; he's now getting around on a walker to re-build the muscle that's wasting away. When he finally managed to walk to the bathroom without assistance he considers it a victory.

As he's slowly picking up the pieces of what he used to know, Dane comes back.

It's a late night in January, 3 AM to be exact. Bradley is, for once, having a peaceful slumber. He dreams of reliving his glory days, of the American Dream clasped in his fingers. He dreams of living in a two-story home with a loving wife and three kids, with the family dog roaming free in the yard. He fantasizes of coming home every Sunday to some apple pie with vanilla ice cream on top. He dreams of his happily ever after ending in him growing old and dying, warm in his bed with the woman he loved. As he looks into the eyes of the woman he spent the rest of his life with, his serene face twists in horror.

"Hello, Bradley. Missed me?"

His dream of warm and sunny hues dissipate to grays and cools by the melting of his world. Gone were the white picket fence, the wife and children, the sweet smell of apple pie and the bark of a loving dog. Bradley no longer feels cozy and accepting; his happiness is replaced with dread, anxiety, and anticipation. Dane lies on his bed, his body facing Bradley's.

"You thought I was going to leave for good, Bradley?"

His fingers ghost over his victim's frightened face, thumb caressing quivering lips.

"Thought I was going to leave you alone?" The touches slowly turn painful when his thumb pinches Bradley's bottom lip and yanking it. He yelps in pain, angry that Dane is chuckling lightly. Dane sits up and snaps his fingers, chains appear in view and clatter into Dane's waiting hands. He straddles Bradley's paralyzed body and grabs his hands.

"You will never get rid of me, Bradley. No matter how hard you try, I'll be here. Waiting, watching, listening. I'll always be here," He whispers into his ear. The tip of his tongue traces the shell of Bradley's ear, making Bradley jolt. He struggles to throw Dane off, but he can't. He's too heavy, his tiny body seems to have extra gravity added to his legs that pin. Bradley begins hyperventilating, air being sucked out of his lungs and he can't stop it. All he could do is look at the demon that caused this madness, this pain and misery that plagued him for years, and watch him laugh. Laugh at his struggling.

It seems to egg Dane on more; he grabs Bradley's wrists and tie them tight with chains. He wraps them tightly around his headboard and secures it with a lock. Done with the task, he runs his fingers down his chest, pinching and groping at all the wrong places. Bradley feels like he's lit on fire.

"I'm in control, Brad. I'm the one in power." He grinds against Bradley, moaning at the friction.

"I'm the one who will break you."


End file.
